Paper Trail
by Laura Schiller
Summary: A collection of letters written by the characters of "Bleak House".
1. Lady Dedlock to Esther

Paper Trail

By Laura Schiller

Based on: Bleak House

Copyright: Charles Dickens' estate/BBC

My dear daughter,

When last we spoke, I know it distressed you to hear me referring to your conception with such remorse. Please believe me, the last thing I intended was to hurt you. I admit I made an error when I was young, one which has haunted me ever since, but if that error has led to the birth of a woman like you, I am truly, sincerely thankful to have made it.

I confess to you, Esther, that I have been a selfish woman all my life. It was selfish not to wait until my wedding night with your father. Selfish to marry Sir Leicester for his name and fortune, knowing I could never love him as he loved me. Selfish to keep my young maid beside me for the pleasure of her company, instead of setting her free to find a better life.

But you, my daughter, with your father's generous spirit looking out from behind my eyes – you have changed me. When I heard of how you contracted your illness, from taking care of that poor boy with no thought of your own safety – when I saw how you filled the lives of Mr. Jarndyce, Miss Clare and all around you with comfort and joy – when you forgave me from your heart that day on the Ghost's Walk – my eyes were opened, and I saw what I might have been if, so many years ago, I had began down a different road.

It is too late for me to reverse the damage I have caused, but perhaps not too late to prevent further harm from being done.

When my sister told you you should never have been born, she was not only cruel, but mistaken. You have been a blessing to all who know you, not least to myself. You are all that was best in James and me, our love made flesh, our living legacy to the world. Whatever happens now, wherever I am going, know that I am proud to be

Ever your loving

Mother


	2. Volumnia to her Sister

Dearest sister,

Have you heard about Mr. Tulkinghorn's death? It is shocking – absolutely shocking. I hardly know what to say. Our dear cousin Sir Leicester has declared it an affront to civilization, to have his very own private attorney shot through the heart in his very own office, and it _is_ of course – but it is more than that.

How can I explain? This is different from any other parting we have known. When our poor dear Mama, God rest her soul, passed away, were we not both in floods of tears? Did we not sit up nights together over cold cups of tea, sharing stories until the small hours of the morning? We remembered how she altered that old white silk with her own hands so you could wear it to your coming-out, because we could not afford a new gown. We remembered how she had to lock the door on O'Brien, or else the dear old soul would have gone on working for us without wages. We remembered the Spanish songs she used to sing.

There are no stories to be told about Mr. Tulkinghorn.

Of course not, you may say. He was Sir Leicester's attorney. We barely knew him. But not even Sir Leicester has told us anything, except that he was a true and loyal servant to the Dedlock family, and that his death is a disgrace upon the country. Lady Dedlock has nothing to add; in fact she seems more silent and frosty than ever, and I declare, it frightens me. Please don't laugh; there is something not quite right about that woman. I have always said so, you recall, since Sir Leicester married her.

However, returning to Mr. Tulkinghorn – you remember, I suppose, how much he fascinated me when we were younger. Of course I set my cap at him – why not? A brilliant young attorney, supported by a wealthy employer, would have been a fortunate match for me, never mind what you and Mama always said about Blood. And of course he would have none of me. I believe he never even noticed, wrapped up as he was in his career. Perhaps that is a mercy; intelligent as he was, he would have come to despise me soon enough.

It was his smile, do you remember? Such a handsome smile, but without any spark of joy in it. Also, I believe that in forty years, I never once heard him laugh. Have you? Sometimes, I have wondered if he could be entirely human – superstitious nonsense, I know, but one does hear such eerie stories. Marlowe's _Faust._ Mozart's _Don Juan._ At other times, watching his black velvet coat absorbing the light as he swept across the drawing-room of Chesney Wold, I wondered if he was simply lonely. Yet even his loneliness was not like other people's, for when I feel lonely, all I have to do is write to you. Whom did he have to write to? Who is there now to weep for him and tell stories?

Perhaps I am the only one – and that, dear sister, makes me more sorrowful than I can possibly express.

Yours affectionately,

Volumnia


	3. Mr Jarndyce to Esther

My dearest Esther –

My very dear girl –

Dear Esther,  
I hope what I write will not come as too much of a surprise

Dear Esther,  
From the moment I first met you, your lovely face and even lovelier spirit have brought light and joy into my life

Dear Esther,  
You know what they say about unequal marriages: namely, that there is no greater inequality than unsuitability of mind and purpose. Regarding you and me, however, despite the difference in our ages – dare I hope that

For God's sake, Esther, I am not your father! How can you be so wise beyond your years when it comes to Rick and Ada, the Jellybys or Mr. Skimpole, and yet so blind to what is right before your eyes? Or has your aunt driven you to such depths of self-hatred that you cannot even acknowledge how much you are loved? When I tell you how beautiful you are, smallpox scars be damned – when I tell you how your shy smile, or the way your chestnut curls escape their bun, make my heart race – when I tell you how your wisdom, your insight and the impossible depths of kindness in your damaged soul makes me want to take you in my arms and kiss you breathless – darling, I beg you to believe

Dame Durden,  
A note to my esteemed young housekeeper to request a new sheaf of paper. Also, you could you please arrange to have my dinner sent up to the Growlery? The wind is in the east tonight and I find myself in need of solitude.  
J. J.


	4. James Hawdon to Honoria Barbary

Dearest Honoria,

Although moved beyond words by your concern, I shall not bore you with the minutiae of military life, or worry you with its dangers. It is enough for me to live through this war, without reliving it on paper. You are my one link to beauty, peace and hope; your letters have become my water in the desert. Even your complaints are charming, for you write them so humorously I cannot help but laugh.

Tell me about your days, my love. Is that old bore, Sir L., still perched in your drawing room like a toad in a wig, prosing away about his ancestors? Do you still quarrel with your most respectable sister about fashion and which calls to take? Do you still "take the air", as you call it, unaccompanied every evening?

Yes, I know; it is useless to remonstrate with you about those walks. I daresay Miss Barbary has dinned your ears about the dangers of walking alone often enough. But you are a wild bird, are you not, my lady? In the absence of wings to fly away on, a brisk, lonely walk through the windswept parks of London is the closest you can find to freedom. I can see you now, smiling like da Vinci's _Mona Lisa_, your hat drawn over your right eye, a dark cloak rustling behind you: my black swan, fierce and tender and unknowable as the night itself.

Speaking of the night and its secrets, I do not regret what passed between us – not unless you do. My promise still stands: if, _when_ I return from this accursed war, we shall renew the vows we made to each other before God and the world. Until then, think of me as the wind brushes your face on those solitary walks of yours, and remember: you are not alone.

I remain

yours in body, mind and soul,

James Hawdon


	5. Allan Woodcourt to Mrs Woodcourt

Dear Mother –

Yes, I am engaged to marry Esther Summerson, and no, I have not taken leave of my senses. As to forgetting my duty to you, I hope I never shall do that – however, if you consider it undutiful of me to choose my partner in life for her character rather than her birth, I take the liberty to disagree.

As a surgeon, I encounter people from all walks of life. I have learned that high lineage does not guarantee virtue or success, and that sometimes, true worth is to be found in the most unexpected places, from Bleak House to Tom-all-Alone's itself.

I have never known any young lady quite like Esther, and I believe I never shall. I have seen her watch over a dying crossing-sweeper boy as if he were her own brother, and treat poor Miss Flite with unfailing respect. I have seen her weeping for other people's troubles, while dismissing her own with a smile. Hers is a beauty which no smallpox scars can hide, and I am blessed to have her in my life. She deserves better than to be slighted for being English or not knowing who her parents were, especially since neither is her fault.

If you can accept my chosen bride as your daughter-in-law, we would be very glad to see you at our wedding. She has asked me to deliver her best wishes, and to tell you that you shall always be welcome at Bleak House II, as we call my new house here in Yorkshire. Nothing could be further from my intention than to hurt you, Mother, or to cause division between us.

I remain, as always,

your affectionate son

Allan


End file.
